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DargonZine Distributed: 08/01/1998
Volume 11, Number 6 Circulation: 678
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Spell of Rain 2 Stuart Whitby Mertz 29, 1016
Maiden Cloth Sue Donnymouse Vibril 30, 1015
Deliverance 2 John Doucette 24 Sy, 1014
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 11-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 1998 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb ,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Battling the sinister force of entropy is a full-time job for any
Web site that grows and changes over time. As a site evolves, its
structure needs to gracefully accomodate new information and new
services, while at the same time continually offering the user
navigation that is intuitive and painless. That's a difficult job in and
of itself, made worse when you realize that few popular sites have the
luxury of "freezing" their sites while new services and navigation are
implemented.
In my other life's work as a Web devloper, I often help my clients
through the struggle of defining their site's structure and navigation.
Often, an approach that might be intuitive to the designer will be
frustrating for the end-user, and this is exacerbated by the amorphous
nature of hypertext, with its propensity for nefariously cross-linked
documents.
At DargonZine, we've been able to go for a long time with only
minimal attention given to navigation. Until recently, our site was
simple enough that navigation wasn't a major issue. However, as the
amount of information we offered our users grew, so did the site's
complexity and our need for better navigational facilities than a single
"return to home page" at the bottom of every document.
We knew that the answer to our problem was a site-wide navigation
toolbar, but it still took us nearly a year to close on a particular
layout and set of icons. But if you visit the DargonZine Web site today,
you will see that the nav bar is now a reality. It isn't implemented on
every single page, but it's well on the way to becoming as ubiquitous as
Coca-Cola!
That may not sound like cause for celebration to you, but it marks
another milestone in the development of our Web site, and hopefully it
will make our site more attractive and easier to use for everyone. Let
us know what you think of it!
This issue contains the second parts of two stories which were
begun in DargonZine 11-5, our previous issue. Those are Stuart Whitby's
"A Spell of Rain", and John Doucette's "Deliverance". These are
accompanied by "Maiden Cloth", a tale which was originally written for
last year's "Night of Souls" issue, DargonZine 10-7. Unfortunately,
after its author disclaimed ownership, the story passed through many
hands on its long and troubled journey toward publication. Finally,
after many months of counterproductive revisions and occasional
abandonment, you see it here in these pages in its original form, as it
was first submitted over a year ago. We hope it has finally found a
place to call home!
Stay tuned for our next issue, which will highlight the results of
our newest writing contest!
========================================================================
A Spell of Rain
Part 2
by Stuart Whitby
Mertz 29, 1016
The netmender's new apprentice sat outside the shop to enjoy the
cooling breeze on the balmy spring day. In the two months since Jason
had shown up at the door -- not begging charity, but asking politely
about apprenticeship -- Martin had not a bad word to say about the boy.
>From the outset, he had been diligent, hard working, polite, and a fast
learner. He was much older than Martin would normally have thought of
taking on, but he was willing and, much more importantly, educated; here
was someone who could write down the names of anyone who owed him money,
along with the amounts -- paying a scribe to formalise debts had seemed
an expensive option on occasion in the past, but had proven cheaper than
losing the money altogether.
After only two months of having him make new nets, Martin was
almost ready to put Jason to work patching rents in the slimy, rotten,
filth-ridden ones that the fishers brought back from their trips.
Jason's deft hands had almost recovered from the blisters that working
with dry rope brought; now he would need to grow new callus to work with
wet. Yet he had never once complained, and asked nothing more than his
due: food, lodging and the secrets of a trade in return for work done.
In truth, Jason liked working for the netmender. It was far removed
from the work he had previously done trying to work weather-magics in
his father's tower, and working with his hands rather than his mind
appealed to him. He could also appreciate the irony of working for a man
named "Weaver." Jason had been lucky to come at a time when the netmaker
was without an apprentice, and even luckier to find that the man was
prepared to take on an untried and unknown youngster.
The thumb-thick rope ran slowly off the drum behind him. At first,
Jason had to concentrate hard on the work, but he was now reaching the
stage where he could let his mind wander as he worked on the nets. The
edge of this net had already been sealed, and, with the hard part done,
he could look at the trading end of the docks as his hands continued
their work. His gaze wandered, skipping over the ships and boats, the
porters who unloaded bales and pallets, the hawkers -- whose claims of
superior quality wares almost drowned out the perpetual noise of the
gulls -- and the fishers who packed the last of their catch in
salt-filled, blood-stained crates. Slowly, Jason's mind detached itself
from his surroundings, and his stare became fixed on the waters before
him. His hands still moved, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a
voice kept repeating, over and over, "... right over left, loop, and
through, left over right, loop, through, and pull. Right over left,
loop, and through, left over right, loop, through, and pull ..."
Reaching the bottom of the net, he doubled the rope along the
length of his hand, looped a holed stone onto the rope, and started his
way back up again. Right over left, loop, and through, left over right,
loop, and through. His face was expressionless; his breathing, shallow.
His eyes never moved from the hypnotic surface of the sea before him.
Right over left. He knew the weave as he knew himself. Loop and through.
A cacophony of purest silence deafened him to all else. Left over right.
The water grew darker, drawing him in. Loop. Toward it. Through. Into
it. Pull.
"Jason," came a dim voice from far away. "Jason?" Closer this time.
What was the word he spoke? A spark of recognition lit the darkened
confines of his mind. A sharp pain made the spark flare.
"Jason!" A grizzled face came into focus above him, a concerned
expression upon it. It grunted in satisfaction as the boy returned to
reality, and to the discomforting fact that he was soaked through. "By
Gow, boy, that's fast work, but you don't need to sit here in this kind
of downpour to finish it!" Martin looked down at the pile by his feet
and frowned at it, before giving up and asking, "Just how much have you
done anyway?"
Jason looked down and gasped at the white netting which was piled
to his left. He did a quick count of the stones, and doubled the result.
"Looks like almost seventy hands." He reached up to caress the stinging
handprint across his cheek. "How long have I been out here?"
Martin peered quizzically at him. "A little over two bells."
Jason looked at the skies in disbelief, then back at Martin. "I
must have been here longer than that, surely? I didn't expect any bad
weather for at least the next two days. There wasn't even a sniff of
rain in the air when I started!" Martin just stared. Jason's eyes rolled
back in his head as he realised what must have happened. "Looks like my
father's in town," he muttered to himself as a troubled frown creased
his brow.
Jason's guess was close, but not quite right. Kilan was getting
nearer, but still had a considerable distance to ride to reach Dargon
itself. After being directed to Sharks' Cove and spending almost two
sennights searching, he had come to the conclusion that his informant
had been mistaken in seeing Jason go that way. Four sennights of wasted
effort, followed by the long journey to Dargon, had taken their toll.
Although Kilan had the body of a man in his mid-thirties, he was well
past fifty, and not used to sleeping rough. Influencing the weather was
simple, but flattening and warming the ground that he spent much of the
time sleeping on was beyond him.
Today though, he could enjoy the sunshine on his back. It was warm,
but not overly hot, and a gentle breeze shushed through the trees on
either side of him. Only the sounds of the horse, the birds, and a
nearby stream broke the silence. For the first time in days, Kilan felt
almost good about the world.
Of a sudden, he looked sharply upward, his eyes darting about as if
the heavens hid assassins who bayed for his blood. A slight breeze had
come up, and clouds had started to show in the skies ahead of him.
Although summer storms could be quick to arise, experience told him that
something was far from normal. A glance down the road behind him
confirmed this. Clouds were scudding in from that direction too, and
while his view was blocked by the trees, he would have staked his liver
on the fact that the weather was closing in from all quarters.
Grimly, he made a rough approximation of the distance to Dargon.
Around ninety leagues. Four days' travel. Four days of not knowing if
this was his son at work. Four days too many.
Kilan thought briefly about trying to clear his path of the rain
which he knew would follow, but quickly discarded the idea. Trying to
create a change in the weather would take time and energy, and the
results were never (to his great annoyance) guaranteed. Pulling his
cloak tighter around his shoulders, Kilan set his gaze on the road
ahead, and dug in his heels.
As the dawn bell announced the arrival of the first of Firil, Jason
arose to the sight of clearing skies. The freak clouds of two days ago
had dumped their contents over land, sea, and Jason's bed, but to
Jason's trained eye, no strange weather portents remained. His attic
room over the netmender's shop was cramped, and he had to concentrate to
avoid touching the damp wooden ceiling as he dressed. Finally, he
checked again the state of sky and sea, and, seeing no indication of
further rain, left the shutters open to let his room dry out.
After setting a fire in the kitchen, Jason cooked a quick breakfast
of fish and eggs. Since there were plenty of new nets available should
anyone lose one, he knew that he would be moved on to other areas this
day. On finishing his food, he scrubbed his plate with clean sand and
water, then took a second helping of the dish up to Martin, leaving it
beside his bed as the man struggled to reach the waking world.
Next, he opened the outside door and took a broom from the back of
the shop. He proceeded to brush all the lint, salt, dirt and bits of
frayed rope out of the door. The work served to wake him up fully in the
mornings as the cool sea breeze swept stale air from the shop and the
morning mugginess from his head.
That done, he stood on the step and looked out over the dock area
of Dargon, leaning easily on his broom. The town was only just beginning
to wake up, though most of the small fishing fleet had already left. The
remainder were on their return trip, hoping to catch the fishmongers who
came down early to buy stock freshly landed that morning. At this time
of day, only two or three voices announced their wares, and only
half-heartedly, having no din to compete against. The sun once more
glinted off rippling waters. Only a slight swell showed that this was a
sea in front of him rather than a calm, inland lake. A scattering of
white, feathered clouds moving slowly across the sky above him promised
that this would be a fine day.
The weather was probably a major influence on Jason's mood, but he
was content. He had expected to see his father turn up after the
unexpected weather some days back, but there was no sign of him, and the
weather had returned to a balmy normality. Jason's wariness of the past
few days had faded with the last of the blustery weather, and he now
felt secure in the knowledge that he would retain the simple pleasures
that his work brought him. A cooling breeze brought fresh air in from
the sea, invigorating the senses and clearing the mind on an otherwise
hot day. Little sound disturbed the tranquility; the lap of the tide
against the side of the dock in front of him only added to the
perfection of the morning. This was a day for feeling good.
Kilan got his first glimpse of Dargon in the early afternoon of the
third day of Firil as he exited a thin patch of woodland. The land in
front of him was green and brown, interspersed with low, rocky tors of
grass-covered granite. It was nearing summer, yet something about the
feel and smell of the air told him that it should have been raining.
The granite of the keep shone silver in the sunshine. Kilan had to
squint to block the sun's wavering reflection in one of the keep's glass
windows. A number of fishing smacks could be seen against the glimmering
backdrop of the Valenfaer ocean at the mouth of the Coldwell, and a
centre of traffic showed the probable location of the market square.
Drawing his horse to a halt, he looked to the sky. The few visible
clouds had been dragged different ways by the winds -- something was far
from ordinary. Dismounting, he moved to an open space to practice his
arts, free from the obstructions and interruptions which would hinder
him in town.
Some time later, Kilan staggered back toward his horse, his face
pale from the effort of spellcasting. "Ol's piss, that boy must be
strong!" This would not just be a simple case of wresting control as he
had expected.
He hauled himself ungraciously into the saddle and kicked his horse
weakly in the ribs. The docile animal set off at its usual plodding
walk, giving Kilan plenty of time to think in weary appreciation on the
strength of his runaway child. Strength like that could only come from
the powder that he had added to the rising bread mixture the night
before the boy left. Kilan wheezed a weak laugh to himself as his
strength returned and he made his way toward the town, knowing that the
culmination of the research that he had started on his wife had worked
in his son.
Jason looked contentedly at the skies outside. This was the third
day of near perfect weather. It seemed like it picked up whenever he
started to weave another net, or even if he touched a rope, but that had
to be coincidence. He knew that even if the power he supposedly had was
to manifest, he would have to be concentrating intently on it, and that
he would have to force the patterns to his will by incantation or
through a focus. He still could not *see* or *sense* the weather as his
father could, but after so much study, he did know that the weather of
the last three days was no natural occurrence. It no longer greatly
concerned him. There must be other sages nearby, and it could be one of
them who was the cause of this enjoyable blight.
Martin was off on a trip to the market for some food and talk.
There was normally plenty of fish available free to a netmender, but
many of the fishers were quietly worried about the strangely good
weather, to the extent that they stayed in port rather than risk
becalming in such conditions. Besides, they could hardly sail without
wind, and a lack of wind was an anomaly if ever one existed in Dargon.
This had, however, kept the shop fairly busy over the last few
days, with the fishers taking advantage of the lay up in port to get
their nets repaired or replaced. Now though, most of the work that he
could do alone had been done, and he had time to sort out the ropes,
stones and bladders into some semblance of order. Lighting a torch from
the fire in the kitchen, he returned to the shop area, now able to see
what he was doing in the dim recesses of the rear of the shop.
Planting his torch in a wall sconce, he bent to the task of
clearing up the mess of rope, sorting it into drums by size and
approximate length, and then stacking it on the wide shelves in the rear
of the shop. He then bent to the task of sorting the stones into buckets
and matching the bladders beside them. Eventually, he stood up, task
complete, as a figure appeared, silhouetted, in the doorway. A leather
bag hung at hip level from a strap around its shoulder.
"My my, haven't you grown?" came the man's voice, his words seeming
to ooze both mirth and hidden meanings. Jason jumped, wide eyed, and
felt the blood drain from his face.
"Father!" His eyes darted about, looking for an escape which he
knew did not exist. "What are you ..." he started, then realised that it
was a stupid question. "How did you find me?" His heart hammered in his
chest, and while the shock of discovery lent him energy, there was
nowhere to run.
"I figured that your faith in Cirrangill would force you to stick
with a coastal town. After Sharks' Cove, this was the next obvious
choice. Besides, anyone with the sense to see it could hardly fail to
notice where you were." Kilan sounded like he was about to burst into
joyous laughter.
Jason rocked back in confusion. "What do you mean? I haven't told
anyone who I am! Or who you are. I've kept to myself since I got here,
and haven't done anything but get myself a job that I'm good at."
"Ah, but the weather *has* turned ... how shall I say it ...
unusual around here, don't you think?"
"If I had known you could find me so easily, I would have moved on
further," Jason replied miserably. "It's not as if I had any way of
checking where *you* were." He shifted his feet nervously, disgruntled
at being tracked down. His father's grin was suddenly made visible as
the sun dimmed behind him.
"That almost sounds like you haven't tried practicing any magic
since you got here." Only the tremor of a chuckle betrayed the fact that
Kilan believed he already knew the answer.
"Why should I? It didn't work when I was trying. Why should it work
when I give it up? I think I proved that I have no talent in that area.
That's why I left in the first place and told you to get another
apprentice. I certainly didn't expect you to come looking for me."
Though still breathing hard from the shock of discovery, he was now
starting to sulk.
Kilan's eyes narrowed slightly. "You never tried any magic? What
have you been doing then, mending nets?"
Jason ignored the sarcasm. "Yes, strangely enough. And cooking,
cleaning, washing and fetching. You know, normal apprentice stuff." He
gestured around at the buckets of stones and ropes. Taking a similarly
flippant approach, he asked, "How have you been?"
"Culchanan's ghost, boy! How do you think I've been?" The joyous
exclamation seemed to echo around the room, causing Jason to jump in
surprise. "Worried sick and looking for you!" Expressions of concern and
relief battled plainly on his father's face. "Do you realise what you
could have done, running off when you did? Do you know just how close to
realising your powers you were? Didn't you know how dangerous it was
running off when you did? And then you end up learning a trade in a
place like this?" He gestured around at the clutter of nets and baskets
which littered the floor as the shop slowly darkened. The torch now
provided much of the light.
Jason stood silent for a while, then started to laugh weakly. "At
least this is something that I can do. I said in the note that you
should get yourself a decent apprentice. You should have tried, rather
than coming to look for me." Jason sighed, knowing how much
inconvenience he had caused. Soon though, he remembered his time in the
tower, and his resolve hardened. "You know, I haven't failed at *one*
task here yet. I don't know if you noticed, but there was a certain
point that I just could not get past when I was trying to become a
weatherweaver. Here, I'm by the sea, I can let my thoughts drift, and
yet I still manage to get the work done. I happen to like it here. Even
my master sticks to things which he can accomplish -- unlike some people
I could mention."
A wry smile appeared on Kilan's face. "You may be wrong there, son.
About accomplishments, I mean. I take it that you have noticed the
unusual weather that Dargon is experiencing presently?"
"Yes. I thought that might have been your doing."
"Well, in a way, but I only arrived here today. Now how do you
think I found you so quickly?" The weatherweaver paused, but Jason chose
not to answer. "These are your weaves causing this. Quite impressive
really, even if I say so myself. I knew you were strong, but I didn't
realise that you would advance so far, so fast."
"What do you mean? I haven't even tried any magic, and now you tell
me I'm at the root of the strange weather we've been having here?" A
note of concern entered Jason's voice at his father's words, and he
longed for Martin to return, though that was unlikely for some time.
"What do I mean?" Kilan asked. "Well, I mean that the bread which
you took with you from the tower was more than just eggs, flour, water,
yeast and salt. And seed, in that particular case."
Jason was near to panic. "You put something in that?" His voice had
increased in both volume and pitch, stopping just short of a shout.
"What have you done?" Something flashed over the seas. "What have you
done to me?" His distress must have been plain as he looked, aghast,
towards his father.
Kilan refused to take offense. He knew the boy was just unsure of
what had been done. Once he knew, his attitude would change. All the
same, Kilan jumped slightly when the thunder rolled in from behind, but
it was not enough to raze the smirk of pride from his face. "Well, what
all did I have in there? Some powders to enhance your concentration,
some of the brine that Corambis concocted for me some years back from
lichens and moss extract around the forest here -- that should help you
align your mind to magic more effectively. What else? A smokeweed
extract that should stop your emotions getting in the way of your magic,
a miniscule chip of chrysoline to protect you from any hostile magics
... There are a number of other ingredients, mostly ones you won't have
studied yet, but all made to work on different flaws in the human mind
and body. All bonded together with amaranth and a weave of my own so
that there should be no problem with effects fading or any of the
constituents working against each other." He paused for effect. "You are
unique, my boy ..."
Kilan would have continued, but the sight of his son thudding down
heavily into a chair and covering his eyes with his forearm stopped him.
Kilan burst once more into a grin. "I know. Fantastic, isn't it?"
Jason felt physically pained by his father's betrayal. By the sound
of things, it was too late to reverse any changes that the spell had
effected. His lips stretched in a rictus across his teeth, and he keened
softly, mourning his loss of self. Outside, a soft drizzle leaked in
sympathy from leaden skies -- skies clear only menes before -- into a
choppy, grey sea. In the distance, lightnings flashed across the clouds
as they moved low over the sea. The low growl of thunder was becoming a
constant distraction.
Kilan frowned, unsure of himself, and annoyed at the lack of
gratitude his son showed. Then he came to the shocked realisation that
there had been no focus, no incantation, and not even any concentrated
effort on his son's part to cause this change in weather. It should
still have taken *some* work at least to turn sun into rain. He stepped
closer, reaching a tentative hand toward his son's head, patting it
gently then holding it to him. The boy sat limp, hardly seeming to
breathe as sobs racked his chest and shoulders.
Tears soaked unnoticed into Kilan's tunic as he reached further,
surpassing physical boundaries, and reaching into his son's mind,
exploring the changes made. The corners of his mouth turned slightly
upward at the ease with which he achieved his goal, but the satisfied
smile turned to a look of concern, then outright horror at what he
found.
Breaking his contact, he staggered backward into a table, sending
items flying from the bag which hung at his hip. The boy flopped back in
his chair, still keening silently to himself. Kilan turned, and made a
drunken lunge for the support of the wall. His mouth gaped wide in the
knowledge of his failure. Somehow, he managed to haul himself outside
into the rain, and lurched down the street, unable to come to terms with
the gravity of his mistake.
========================================================================
Maiden Cloth
by Sue Donnymouse
Vibril 30, 1015
"Honey. Honey!! Where are you? Where -- Augh!"
Cairel jumped as Honey sprang up behind him, out of the darkness
and grabbed him from behind. She then ran past him down the path and
sprang back into the dark bushes, giggling the whole time. With a grin
Cairel ran after her.
The landscape was well lit by the full moon. In years past neither
Cairel nor Honey would have dared venture out-of-doors during the Night
of Souls, but they were both feeling their full fifteen years' age, and
had decided that they were too old to believe in the fables and tales
the adults spun by the fireside for the other children. Besides, there
were other, more interesting things to do.
Cairel could not see Honey up ahead, but he could hear her excited
breathing and the sound of her passage through the undergrowth. His own
breath came out in half-laughs, thrilled at the chase. He always liked
Honey, but now he felt a certain, special excitement around her. He
wasn't entirely sure why, but there was something about her that he
somehow had never noticed until this year. Maybe it was her new height.
Until this year she was always the smaller of the two. Maybe it was
loneliness. His older brothers had gone off to war, and half the village
children were gone, migrated to the cities with their families in search
of work and food.
What Cairel wouldn't admit to himself was that suddenly Honey
wasn't just a girl anymore, and he was no longer a young boy. He
realized now that there was an attractiveness to the opposite sex, and
for whatever reason, it seemed to concentrate itself in Honey. The
mysteries of love were a mere rumor to him, but there were many
mysteries about Honey, and Cairel knew he wanted to stay close to her,
in case some were revealed.
He stopped in a small ravine, panting, holding his breath fitfully
so he could listen. Where had she gone? The sound of snapping twigs
brought him around, and drew his gaze up the steep, rocky, slope. There,
up the hill, with the moonlight shining on her, stood Honey.
"Up here, snail!!" she yelled, jumping up and down and waving her
arms. "You sure run slow!! Aren't you going to catch me?"
"Shhh!" urged Cairel, "They'll hear you back at the house!"
"Slow ox!" she taunted. "Mole feet!"
He dashed up the slope, and she ran ahead of him. The higher they
climbed, the slower they climbed. Finally Cairel paused.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, pausing and stripping off his shirt. He
mopped his brow with it, then tossed it on top of a prominent boulder.
"All this running has me sweating!" Cairel started up the slope again,
dodging around the boulders.
"That's a good idea!" she called out. "I'm too hot for this," she
added, in a tone of voice that caught Cairel's attention. He looked up
just in time to see her throw her dress up over her head. He stood,
stunned. She looked down at him with a mischievous grin and laughed at
his shock. Cairel could do little but stare. He had seen her naked many
times before, as children playing in the nearby streams, but somehow
seeing her like this revealed the changes the years had made in them
both. In the dim moonlight she was a vision of pale white curves,
unmarked by any darkness save her flowing locks above and the beginning
of a delta below. For some reason that made his breath shorter, and his
blood hotter.
"That's much better," she taunted saucily. "Now I can run even
faster!" With a hop and a skip she disappeared. Cairel followed, a
different sort of energy suffusing his legs.
Cairel knew the slope reached a ridge at the top, then descended to
the road. She wouldn't risk appearing there unclothed, so she would have
to go further away from the house. He cut across the slope and crested
the rise higher up. He ran hard toward the path, listening to her
giggles ahead. He burst out of the brush at the same moment she did. He
could see that she was naked, save for her shoes and a band of cloth
around her chest. She let loose a delighted shriek, and nearly stumbled
while turning back. He followed, and for a moment more they ran,
laughing hard. Finally he reached out and seized the cloth, and pulled
her in. They went down in a tumble.
Cairel landed on top, pinning his quarry to the dirt. Honey
squirmed, trying to push him off, laughing. He tickled her, squealing
with glee. She writhed, shrieking, trying at first to escape, then
wrapped her legs around his waist. She ran her hands across his smooth
chest, her eyes wide. Cairel placed one hand on each hip, then slid them
front and back, touching the forbidden cheeks, fondling the hidden
treasure. He slid his hands upwards and seized the cloth around her
chest. It was tight, binding the lower half of her breasts, pushing them
up and making them look larger than they were. He tugged on the band,
pulling it down.
"No!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Not my maiden-cloth!" She grasped
the band, trying to hold it up. They struggled earnestly until Cairel
succeeded in lowering it until first one, then the other nipple emerged.
Suddenly her resistence faded, and the maiden-cloth fell away. Cairel
tossed it aside and stared in awe at Honey, who lay there, panting,
waiting. Unsure just what to do, Cairel lowered his lips to her breast.
"Just a taste of Honey," he whispered.
"I wouldn't do that," a voice behind them said.
They both yelped, scrambling to their knees. Honey covered herself
and cowered behind Cairel. They stared trembling at the stranger who had
accosted them. He was dressed in dark cloth, with a wide-brimmed hat on
his head. From its rim dangled wooden rings strung with colored beads.
The couple couldn't see much of his face, but when he smiled they could
see only gums, without a single tooth in sight. The moonlight glinted
off his eyes.
"Who ... who are you?!" blurted Cairel, pushing back away from the
man. "What do you want?!"
"I wouldn't be ... tasting those sweets here at night," the man
cautioned. "The nosuckle is likely to get you."
"The what?" gasped Honey.
"The nosuckle. Haven't you ever heard of the nosuckle?" He leaned
forward, stepping closer, lowering his head to stare straight into their
eyes.
"Many years ago there was a young couple, just like you," he said.
"They were tasting their spring buds too, just like you, only they got
just a little bit further. Well, the girl, see, she was ripe, and after
a while, she had a baby."
The two started to squirm uncomfortably.
"Of course," the man continued, "she was really too young. When the
baby was born, see, her sweets were too hard, and they wouldn't give no
milk! Oh, how the baby cried and cried, but when she gave her breast for
it to suck, there was nothing there."
"Well, after a long while of listening to the baby crying she got
so angry that she went out and got some butterfly weed milk and gave
that to the baby to drink."
"But ... but butterfly weed .. it's poison!!" stuttered Honey,
protesting.
"Aye, that it is. She took the baby out into the woods, and wrapped
it in her maiden cloth," he pointed to the white cloth lying beside the
path, "and left it to die. Which it did."
The man took a step closer, the beads on his hat rattling. "Well,
perhaps I shouldn't say it died. Let's just say it wasn't a baby
anymore. For, you see, a bit later that same two was out in the woods
again, stirring the soup as it were. The nosuckle, for that's what the
baby had become, saw the man and woman, you see. It thought that the man
was attacking its mother, for being a baby it didn't understand such
things as you do now. So it grew claws and teeth, and it tore the throat
out of that young man, who was actually its own father."
Cairel wrapped his hand uncomfortably around his neck.
"After that it saw its mother there, with her lovelies exposed,
just as if to give it suckle. Well, it was forever hungry, cursed as it
was, and it tried to suck. But her tits were still just as hard: about
as flat as your own, if you please."
Honey wrapped her arms around her bare chest.
"Well, it sucked and sucked, but nothing came out. So it sucked
even harder, and finally sucked the life right out of her. So you see,
that's why you ought not be tasting those sweets tonight, here in the
woods. For the nosuckle is still out there," he swept his arm around at
the darkness, "looking for a breast to suck. And if it saw yours, well,
you wouldn't like it."
The man leaned forward, stepping even closer to the frightened
pair.
"Now you better be getting your clothes back on and be getting back
home. If you know what's good for ya." When they just sat there,
paralyzed, he thrust his head forward with a jerk. "Go!"
Cairel and Honey jumped to their feet and ran. They ran back up the
hill the way they came, holding onto each other's hand and not looking
back. They reached Honey's dress and she snatched it up, then they
passed Cairel's shirt and he did the same. They ran until they reached
the path, where they collapsed to their knees, laughing.
"Who was that?" asked Cairel finally, shrugging his shirt on.
"I ... I don't know!" Honey replied as she slipped her dress back
over her head. Cairel watched her secret parts disappear from view,
wondering when he would see them again. They fell into each other's arms
and laughed a longwhile. Then, holding hands, they started back toward
the house. Suddenly Honey stopped, her hands flying up to clutch her
breasts.
"What?" exclaimed Cairel.
"My maiden-cloth! I left it back there!"
"Get it in the morning," urged Cairel. Suddenly the woods seemed
darker than they had before. Though he wouldn't admit it to her, he had
a strong desire to be out of the dark, inside with the others.
"No, no, you don't understand!" Honey insisted. "If I come back
without it, my mother will see when I undress tonight. She'll know I've
been up to something!! We have to go back and get it!"
Together they turned back and ran up the path, always looking ahead
for the dark form of the stranger. They reached the spot where they had
met him, but he was not to be seen.
"It's around here somewhere," Honey said. "Look at the side of the
path."
They scouted about. Suddenly Honey spotted a clump of white in the
undergrowth.
"Here it is!" She bent down to pick it up as Cairel stepped over to
her side. What she lifted was not her maiden-cloth, however, but a
bundle. It fell apart as she lifted it. Out rolled an infant's toothless
skull. As they stared in horror, a wooden ring strung with beads fell to
the ground. It was a baby rattle. With a howl of unreasoning terror, the
two turned, and ran straight home, without stopping.
========================================================================
Deliverance
Part 2
by John Doucette
24 Sy, 1014
Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
24 Sy, 1014 B.Y.
The woman stepped through the gate of the elegant house and stopped
on the street, gazing up at the night sky. She shivered -- the time was
very late and the air was cool -- and drew her cloak about her. She
stood there for several menes, simply gazing up at the stars, her
breathing slow and regular. She had always loved looking at the night
sky. Some of her most prized memories of her early childhood were of
lying on the grass or sitting on the low stone wall near her parents'
small house, staring up at the night sky, losing herself, escaping from
the world for a time.
Tonight -- for a great many nights of late, actually -- she was in
sore need of the solitude the night sky could bring. The cowl on her
cloak partially obscured her vision, so she pushed it back, exposing her
long brown hair to the light of the moon. She stood there for perhaps
half a bell -- perhaps more, she wasn't certain -- before reluctantly
lowering her gaze from the quiet sky. She looked about the broad street.
Other than herself, the street was deserted. She preferred it that way.
It made her task so much easier.
She turned to her left suddenly and began walking with quick,
decisive strides up the street, which was already beginning to slope
upwards on its way towards the Royal Quarter and Crown Castle. She had
no such lofty destination in mind, however. Keeping her cloak wrapped
around her, her boots thudding softly against the cobblestones, she kept
close to the buildings, houses of the wealthier of the residents of the
Merchants' Quarter. She chose to leave the cowl of her cloak down, both
to provide better visibility and hearing, and because she simply wanted
to.
She had been walking briskly for several menes when she spied her
first major landmark, a moderately-sized plaza at the junction of five
streets. She slowed, hearing voices, one hand moving under her cloak to
grasp the hilt of the dagger riding in a scabbard on her left hip. As
she approached the plaza, she slowed even more, her face a mask of
intense concentration as she struggled to listen, trying to determine
the danger, if any, the voices posed.
The voices were much louder now as she approached the corner of the
streets leading into the plaza from the north and east. She crept up to
the corner of the building and risked a glance into the plaza. What she
saw caused instant alarm -- two of the town guard not ten feet away and
moving toward her. She drew quickly back and partially turned to face
north, back the way she came, looking for a place of concealment.
Nothing readily presented itself and she knew that to run would spell
disaster -- the town guard would surely pursue someone fleeing down a
city street this late, especially in time of war. She could not afford
that, not now, not after all she had done and had suffered through these
past months. The guards were almost at the corner now. She turned to
face the corner, briefly flirting with the idea of using her dagger.
That would not help matters either; would, in fact, only serve to make
things much, much worse. She had only one option remaining to her, and
she was loathe to use it. Uttering an oath, she let her hand slip from
the dagger's hilt, her arms falling to her sides, the cloak opening
somewhat to reveal the white shirt, green vest, and dark trews. Then she
waited.
The glow of a lantern preceded the arrival of the guardsmen. The
two men rounded the corner and stopped short as they were confronted by
the sight of a rather nice-looking woman of medium height, moderately
well-dressed, wearing a dark cloak, and standing there looking as if her
presence on a deserted street in the middle of the wee bells in a
capital nearly under siege was as natural as rain on a spring day.
The older of the two men narrowed his eyes and quickly took in the
surroundings. His partner, he noticed, was taking in other, more shapely
sights. "And what might you be doing out here all alone at this time of
night?"
The woman answered in an oddly-accented voice, her speech
formal-sounding. "I am new to the City," she said, "and have lost my
way. I had been enjoying the hospitality of a tavern recommended to me
by friends. Friends whom, I might add, left me to my own devices some
time ago." She smiled, a dazzling smile in the light of the lantern.
"Would you be so kind as to guide my way to my lodgings?"
The younger man started forward almost immediately, only to be
stopped by a hand on his arm. "Hold it, lad. Not so quick. You, lass,
where is it you are staying?"
The woman -- youngish, the older guardsman judged -- turned her
attention full on him and answered in that odd-sounding voice of hers,
"I am staying at the Bardic Hostel, doing some scribe work for the
College. As I have said, I have only just recently arrived in the City
and I am not entirely familiar with it yet. Doubly so after dark."
The older guardsman appeared to consider the answer until his
deliberations were interrupted by his younger colleague. "Come on,
Coros, what harm can she be? She's just a woman and unarmed." At that,
the woman brought her hands out fully into the light, holding them out,
palms up. Coros pondered for a few moments more before finally deciding,
apparently, that his younger colleague's assessment was partially true.
Her being a woman had no bearing on how dangerous she was, but the fact
she bore no steel he could see went a long ways towards helping him make
up his mind. Coros grunted and nodded, motioning for the younger
guardsman to fall in on the woman's right while he moved to her left
side.
As the two men approached, the woman made certain to keep her hands
out in the open. Just as they reached her, she suddenly reached out to
touch each man on the forehead. She whispered a single word, and both
men fell to the ground with a solid thud. She narrowly managed to catch
the lantern before it, too, hit the ground. A fire was the last thing
anyone needed.
She stood straight, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she
had been keeping in. She gazed down at the immobile bodies of the
guardsmen for several moments before satisfying herself they would
trouble her no more. She again glanced around the street, looking for
witnesses, before extinguishing the lantern and setting it on the
cobblestones between the two men.
The woman drew her cloak about herself once more and stood there
until she could see well enough to travel quickly if need be. When her
eyes had fully adjusted to the light of the moon, she set off, treading
briskly across the plaza, heading for the street that led west and
slightly south off the plaza. As she stepped out into the plaza, she
took the opportunity to look down the street from which the guardsmen
had come. What she saw brought her to an awkward halt. The sky to the
east was lit with an angry orange glow. She stared towards the eastern
sky, turning her head slowly to look fully upon the spectacular and
chilling sight. "Nehru's Blood!", she whispered in awe.
There were gaps in the orange glow, clearly a fire. The fire seemed
some distance away and it took her a moment to realize that the reason
there were gaps in the glow was that the large, closely packed -- and
expensive -- buildings that characterized much of the Merchants' Quarter
were obscuring her line of sight. She now realized that the glow from
the fire, if indeed that was the source of what she was seeing, covered
nearly the entire eastern horizon. Perhaps the Beinisonians had begun
their assault upon Baranur's capital. If so, she thought, she must move
her plans along more rapidly than she had ever conceived and in a
totally unanticipated direction. She did not relish the prospect of
either option.
She turned and hurried west, jogging along the dark street in her
haste. Contrary to what she had told the guardsman Coros, she knew
Magnus very well, day or night. She had spent the last three months
getting to know the lay of the streets, among other, less desirable
things. The nature and cost of the buildings changed as she moved west,
generally becoming larger and more expensive. The part of the city she
was entering was home to most of the more-powerful merchant families.
Large manors abounded, intricate gardens on display both in and outside
homes, status symbols in the game of wealth and power. Quite vain, but
quite lovely in daylight, she thought as she hurried along, occasionally
glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being followed.
She jogged west for about half a bell before slowing to a brisk
walk. She had spied her destination, a large, semi-fortified stone manor
on the south side of a small square with a fountain in the centre. She
slowed her pace somewhat as she approached the large door of the manor,
wanting to bring her breathing under better control before entering. She
must not seem anxious.
The woman, her breathing now unhurried, walked up to the large
wooden door. She reached out for a rope hanging in front of the door and
to her left, tugging on it three times. She waited for a time, enjoying
the quiet, formulating her thoughts and plan of action for the night's
main task. Presently, the sound of a latch being undone came to her ears
and shortly thereafter, a panel in the centre of one of the doors slid
open to reveal a man's face. Light spilled out onto the street from a
lantern the man was carrying. Immediately-apparent recognition dawned in
the man's eyes. "Ah. They are expecting you, my lady." Not waiting for
the woman to respond, the man closed the panel, plunging the street into
darkness once more. The woman heard the sound of a bar being withdrawn
and the door opened inward. The man was standing there, his lantern
tightly shuttered to prevent as little light to escape as possible. The
woman stepped through the door and past the man, who wordlessly closed
the door and replaced the bar before opening his lantern.
The man walked past the woman, leading the way up to the second
floor, a journey both had made many times together in the past months.
The man carried the lantern in his left hand, as he always did, holding
it level with his eyes and out to the side, again as he always did. The
woman, for her part, followed a pace or two behind and to his right, as
she always did. The pair walked down a darkened hallway until the man
halted before a door. He turned and nodded, as he always did, before
walking off back the way he had come. The woman waited until the man and
his lantern had disappeared, as she always did, before opening the door
and stepping into the well-lit room beyond. She smiled slightly to
herself as she entered, reflecting on how such a simple series of
actions could take on the effect of a calming and even anticipated
ritual. She would have been even more amused to find that the man
thought the same way.
The room was richly-apportioned, several expensive tapestries and
even a few books in evidence. Four men were seated around an
exquisitely-crafted table in the centre of the room. A fifth stood at a
window, gazing east at the glow from the Fifth Quarter's death throes.
It was this fifth who turned when the woman entered the room. "Ah.
Celeste. We have many matters to discuss."
Celeste closed the door without turning away from the man who had
spoken. She nodded briefly. "We doth, indeed, my Lord," she said,
gratefully resuming the archaic usages normally common to her speech.
The man at the window, modestly dressed, walked over to sit in one
of the two empty chairs at the table, a slight smile on his face. As he
sat, he indicated with a gesture for Celeste to take the remaining
chair. Celeste took the proffered seat with grace, pausing to slip her
cloak off and drape it over the back of the chair.
The man folded his hands in his lap and asked, again smiling, "What
news of Master Cheldrith? Have you won him over? Will he throw in with
us?"
"Aye, Lord Enion," Celeste responded, "he hath indicated that he
shall." That was news clearly to gladden Enion's heart; and the others
present as well, to judge from their reactions. They have not as secure
a position as they do publicly acclaim, then, Celeste thought.
Enion nodded in salute to Celeste. "Your talents," he said in his
rich, deep voice, "are truly astounding."
Celeste nodded in acceptance of Enion's compliment, smiling
slightly. An outward mask, that; her true reaction was one of disgust
and loathing, not all of it directed outward. For certes shall I enjoy
*your* death, Enion, she thought, both in the length and manner of the
doing.
He directed his next comment to the room as a whole. "Well, now
that Celeste has brought us such good news, I think we can safely move
on to the end game."
Celeste interrupted the murmurs of assent and joking suggestions of
what to do with their quarry once he was brought down. "My Lord,
doubtless thou hast observed the flames even now devouring that part of
the city on the far bank. Is it not somewhat early to be thus
congratulating ourselves on the further success of this, our plan?
Surely the flames doth herald the final onslaught of the Beinisonian
host in their siege camp?"
General laughter swept round the table. It was one of the others
who imparted the source of their laughter to Celeste. "Not to worry. It
is only the Fifth Quarter that burns. Good riddance, say I."
Celeste responded, speaking as if to a particularly slow student.
"Mayhap that is so, Gerrans, but think thou the Beinisonians shalt
content themselves with the Fifth Quarter only? True it is they may not
be assaulting the city walls even now, but it is just as certain that
they shalt not be leaving anytime soon. Not possessing a host that
overmatches that within the walls two for one. The Beinisonians shall
assault or shall siege the entire city and then shalt we find ourselves
forced to deal with the question of how, or even if, we should proceed."
Gerrans made as if to respond, his face hot with anger, but Enion
was there first, laying a restraining hand on the younger man's arm. "A
valid concern, Celeste, but my man inside the Castle has informed me
that the foreigner has a plan should that happen." Enion paused then
added, a faint note of surprise in his voice, "It actually might
succeed, too, which would be a refreshing change."
Celeste posed another question, inwardly marveling that these men
should so casually dismiss Edward Sothos as nothing more than an
incompetent amateur. "And is this man of thine reliable, my Lord Enion?"
"Very," Enion responded in a crisp voice. "His loyalty to House
Northfield is unquestioned." Enion sat straighter, his hands on the arms
of the chair, radiating authority. "Now we must turn our attentions to
exactly how we shall accomplish our goal; the removal of the foreigner
and the installation of our own candidate in his place." Enion smiled, a
feral glint in his eye. "And *then* we shall see to the restoration of
House Northfield to its place of prominence among the Great Houses."
And then, thought Celeste, once the Sothos is freed of his duties
and responsibilities here, then shalt I be thus able to depart this
wretched land. She smiled and let the others think what they may. But
not before I am well recompensed for my service, nay, not before then.
========================================================================